


The Firebird

by littleboxesofstars



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Friends to Lovers, I'm trying to think of warnings but there aren't really any???, Kissing, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 06:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14051433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleboxesofstars/pseuds/littleboxesofstars
Summary: Dan has finally qualified for the advanced class at his ballet academy, something he’s been working towards for years. He’s working as hard as he can, trying his best to keep up with the difficult curriculum, trying to prove to himself that he belongs there. That’s hard enough, but it becomes near impossible when the class’s best student, Phil Lester, catches his eye.





	The Firebird

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been way too long since I’ve written a phanfic, so here!! I’ve seen a few fics with dan or phil as ballet dancers, but not both of them, so here’s this! it’s my first stab at writing from dan’s point of view, but I’m pretty happy with this fic, so I hope I managed it! also posted to my tumblr @doseofantiseptic

_Control._

Dan was afraid even to breathe, holding his arms up, his legs straight, and his chin high in determination to keep his balance. He fought against the ache in his muscles, a single, cooling bead of sweat trailing down his neck to the base of his throat. Then slowly, slowly, he lowered himself from the balls of his feet, letting his heels touch the hardwood floor.

He let his whole body slump forwards in a sigh, his arms dangling uselessly, his fingertips brushing the floor. Sweat was sticking his bangs to his forehead but he couldn’t find it in himself to care, pulling his earbuds from his ears--the classical music from them had long-since stopped--a small, accomplished smile growing on his face. He had done it. He’d been practicing that step sequence for weeks over the summer, working on every second down to the last division of the beat. He had managed it satisfactorily a few times, sure, but consistency was what he needed.

Cracking his stiff toes against the wooden floor, curling each foot in turn, he bent to check the time on his phone, and a curse fell from his lips. It was late, later in the evening than he’d wanted to spend in the small, abandoned practice room he'd begun to call his own, instantly starting on his cooldown. He'd known though, going into the practice session, that he was highly likely to work until he was satisfied, so while the time wasn't ideal, it wasn't too surprising. Still, he wanted to get a full night’s sleep tonight; he needed to be fully prepared for tomorrow.

Tomorrow was the start of a new summer at the London Dance Academy, Dan having settled himself into his bedroom at the camp only a couple of days ago. It was labeled as a summer camp, but in reality it was an elite and expensive program, hours spent in top tier ballet classes with the most rigorous instructors. Every student had to re audition every year, and every year for the past four years Dan had earned himself a spot, working his way up in skill level, trying to secure himself a place in the most difficult class with the most difficult instructor. He had auditioned this summer with the elite class in mind, and the year was finally here.

Dan showered as quickly as he could, changing into the loose cotton shirt he liked to sleep in, pulling on a clean pair of underwear. He took time with the final part of his nightly routine, sitting down on the rug in his bedroom. He found it relaxed him, a small moment before he slept where it wasn’t drilled into him to keep his head high or his back straight. He reveled in slouching as he leaned against his dresser, sighing about his aching muscles. But he couldn’t let himself rest on the floor too long, knowing he was in real danger of actually falling asleep like this, getting to work on moisturizing his hands and feet, clipping his toenails, popping some joints, and stretching out his legs one last time. The rugs on the floors of these old rooms had heard many of his complaints over the years, but now, despite all of the inconveniences he was experiencing physically, he was too nervous and excited to find himself bothered. He set out the clothes he needed for the next day and got into bed, all of that anxiety still in his chest as he drifted off.

 

 

 

“This is the hardest class in this academy.” The instructor was a man Dan had only seen walking around the school, but never up close, and despite his small frame, his poise and commanding tone was intimidating. “It is regarded by many to even qualify as professional level. Each of you are here because you were considered able to handle it.” His hair was long, black, and tied back, out of his face and tight to his head. He wore the standard black leggings and a loose-fitting t-shirt, like all of his pupils, but instead of white his shirt was red. “And, as we have placed you, we will not hesitate to remove you either. Understood?”

He looked around at them all, Dan following his eyes. There were seven students, including himself, and when the man’s eyes landed finally on him he swallowed, nodding.

“Good.” He clapped his hands, the sound loud, reverberating in the open room, with its glass walls and wooden floors. “Time to warm up. To the bar.”

The warm up was grueling, but Dan didn’t let it show on his face. He was the youngest in the room, perhaps one of the few still in their teens, but he was grateful when he noticed that despite his age, he wasn’t holding up the worst; everyone seemed to be struggling slightly with it all. However, he wasn’t holding up the best, either, and at that he bit the inside of his cheek. He’d known it would be like this, but knowing and feeling were two different things. He had been the best in every class he’d been placed in for years, the one the instructors called on to help others with jetés and fouettés. But here, he wasn’t the best. He probably didn’t even make the top three. Again though, he told himself; that was to be expected.

They were each made to hold a first arabesque, the instructor walking down the line and making corrections. Dan watched him as he went, forcing a steeper angle in legs, extending arms higher. He moved Dan’s chin upwards slightly, adjusting his foot position before continuing on. He got down to the end of the line, where a black haired boy was, his limbs long and extended. The instructor looked over him for a few moments, his scrutinization more lengthy than it had been for anyone else. But he didn’t move to give any corrections, finally turning away.

“Good, Philip. Everyone relax.”

Dan bit the inside of his cheek again at the lack of criticism. Ballet was an art, and as he’d been told over the years, there was no such thing as perfection in the arts. There was always room to push, always room for improvement. It was belittling, exhausting, and a truth Dan had always found terrifying, but it was a weirdly inspiring concept all the same. He couldn't be perfect, but he could to pursue the feeling.

This Philip, however, was perfect at arabesques, apparently. At least, in the eyes of the man that mattered.

Despite the chill in the room, it only took a couple of hours for sweat to stick Dan's shirt to his back. The call to begin cool down was a relief, and some of the students that knew their instructor and his limits from previous years began talking quietly amongst each other. Dan stretched carefully, knowing already that he was going to be sore. He needed to do more strength training and cardio, the idea having him suppressing a sigh. He needed to be stronger.

Philip was talking to the student next to him, a boy from Dan's class last year and the only other kid in the room he knew more than by name. Dan watched for a little while, and the conversation seemed pleasant, with smiles on both sides. Philip must have seen him looking, because when class was declared over he approached, an easy, friendly expression on his face.

“Hi.” He said. “What's your name?”

“Daniel.”

“Phil Lester.” Phil gave a him deep bow, and in spite of himself Dan felt his lips quirk upwards slightly. It was nothing, though, to the grin on Phil's face when he straightened back up. “You're the other new kid in class, right? I heard there were two.”

Dan nodded a bit. Phil was rather striking to look at, with dark hair, bright eyes, and lean, strong limbs. Having to consciously remind himself not to stare was embarrassing. He felt as though he should recognize Phil; he was bound to have seen him at the academy at some point, and Dan knew he wouldn't forget a face like this.

“Are you new as well?”

“Sort of.” Phil looked surprised by the question. “I moved to the area last year, and I was placed in a lower class--two levels below this one, I think?--but I was moved up to this class after a couple of weeks.”

“You were moved up to this class?” Dan tried to contain his shock, but he wasn't sure he succeeded. Nobody moved classes after auditions were done, and nobody skipped levels; Dan had often found himself stuck in lessons that felt numbingly easy. But Phil had done both.

Phil shrugged. “Apparently my audition didn't 'convey my full potential’, or whatever. But I was nervous! So this is my second year in this class, I guess. I know this is the 'elite’ one, and stuff, but… I'm really not spectacular, or anything.”

Dan would have found the humble tone annoying, but somehow on Phil, it wasn't. That realization, however, had him annoyed anyway.

“You did well today, Dan.”

The words weren't meant to be condescending, so Dan tried his hardest not to take them that way. They were dismissive though, a way to end the conversation, Phil giving him another smile and making his way towards the door.

“Daniel.” Dan corrected unnecessarily. Nobody called him Daniel, really. It made him a bit uncomfortable, actually, if someone did, due to how uncommon it was and how often it was simply reserved for teachers. But Dan had just wanted to say something, anything, not wanting the conversation to end. He didn’t want Phil to leave. It didn’t quite do the trick, but Phil gave him a happy glance back, smiling yet again at him and waving as he left the room.

The next day found Phil next to him on the bar during warmup. He greeted Dan cheerfully enough--he looked tired, but he was smiling--and Dan tried to return the gesture, but it was hard. Every one of his muscles was in pain. He had felt the soreness coming on as soon as the class from yesterday had ended, but spent some time at the end of the day working on his legs anyway. He couldn't tell yet if he regretted it or not, but he was worried about how he would hold up in class today, judging by how difficult it had been to get out of bed that morning.

Again, he wasn't the worst and he wasn't the best. Everyone in the class was hurting, and there was an audible sigh of relief when cool down was announced. Their instructor's lips twitched, almost as though he was about to smile.

“Get stronger!” He reprimanded loudly, the first to leave the room when class was finished, everyone else groaning on the floor.

“Today was hard…” Phil said with a sigh, stretching out to lie on his back. His arms reached up over his head, the ribs and lean muscle of his chest outlined by his thin shirt. Dan watched him. “Do your legs hurt too?”

Dan simply nodded. Being next to Phil throughout the class had been more of a distraction than anything else. Phil was undoubtedly the best in the class, and Dan was constantly torn between trying not to stare at him, and trying not to feel too bitterly about how much better than him Phil was at everything. Despite his complaints of soreness, Phil didn’t look nearly as uneven or shaky as Dan felt he himself was, and Dan rolled onto his back with a sigh.

Phil began another round of cool down stretches, all long limbs, Dan watching him out of the corner of his eye, feeling a bit annoyed and a bit mesmerized by how he moved. His feelings towards Phil were a strange kind of reverence that he hadn't truly felt before. He wasn't used to being so both overshadowed and impressed by someone that was supposed to be on his own skill level. He idolized other dancers, of course, but they were ballerinas that were already performing in big shows, professionals with training beyond his years. People he was supposed to look up to.

When he was very young, his parents had taken him to see the ballet 'The Firebird’ in the theater. They'd undoubtedly expected him to fall asleep, or at least be bored with the whole thing, but the contrary happened. Dan felt himself entranced by Prince Ivan, the way he was able to romance royalty and fight evil with music and the beauty of his movements. He was just so beautiful, and Dan wanted to be that beautiful too. So that night, on their journey home he declared to his mother that he wanted to be a ballerina, a ballerina that just like Prince Ivan was, just as talented as Prince Ivan was. And he hadn't let up on it since.

Gradually, Dan began enjoying waking up early. Well, not quite. He couldn’t contain his grumblings as he dragged himself out of bed and down to the classroom, but as soon as Phil met his eyes and smiled, all of the negativity began to ebb away. Despite his competitive streak and the flipping sensation in his stomach and everything else, he liked having Phil next to him in lessons. They would briefly talk in murmurs if the instructor's temperament allowed, keeping it to a minimum to avoid being called out. A lot of the time, instead of saying much, Phil would make faces at him.

Like at this moment, Phil was glancing quickly at him and poking himself in the cheek. He’d been doing so for the past minute and Dan had given up on trying to solve his charade, just raising his eyebrows, hopelessly confused and slightly amused. Phil poked again, widening his eyes. Dan settled into a comfortable fifth position, unable not to laugh at Phil's miming, air coming quickly from his nose in an attempt to stifle the sound. Phil beamed, nodding, pointing at him this time, and Dan touched his own cheek, realizing what Phil was gesturing to. His dimples.

Phil bent down, leaning closer under the guise of straightening the ends of his leggings to whisper to him, his voice soft.

"They're cute."

Dan blushed up to his ears and turned away, not realizing until it was too late that their studio room was walled with nothing but mirrors and Phil could definitely still see him. Phil was grinning, and Dan leaned over to elbow him.

"Shut up."

"Really!" Phil insisted in a hushed voice.

"My face is deformed." Dan deadpanned. Phil gave him an amused look.

"Well, I like it." He said, and Dan flushed again.

"Whatever." He grumbled, but he could feel himself grinning, Phil pointing to his cheeks again. Dan wanted to repay the compliment, trying to think of something to say, but by the end of class he hadn't been able to come up with anything that wouldn’t embarrass him on a mortifying level. He quite liked Phil's nose, but couldn't find a way of phrasing that didn't sound creepy. He could compliment Phil's eyes; Dan was sure they must have already been complimented in every way possible, but they were doubtlessly deserving, so beautiful, and blue, and... And looking back at him. Dan realized he'd been staring.

"Hey." Phil said, grinning. "Earth to Dan." He gave a little wave. Dan waved back, sighing a little, willing his embarrassment not to show on his face.

"Sorry, I'm just tired." He lied. Well, it wasn't exactly a lie. He  _was_  tired. Phil nodded, looking sympathetic.

"Join the club."

"I created the club." Dan insisted, stretching his arms over his head to lay on his back on the floor. “I was tired before you were born.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s impossible.” Phil told him, laying down next to him. The wooden floor wasn’t comfortable, but Dan found he didn’t mind. He admired Phil’s side profile until it was gone with the turn of Phil’s head, and Phil was looking at him again.

“What is it, Dan? Is something wrong?”

“What do you mean?” Dan frowned, Phil rolling so he was laying on his side, facing him.

“You keep looking at me. Did you want to tell me something?”

“Oh.” Phil noticed. Dan cursed himself for a few moments, trying to come up with something to say. “No, it’s just… All of your arabesque poses are really nice. I was thinking about how I need to work on my own.”

“I could help you, if you’d like. Lots of the classrooms empty out by five; we could grab one.”

“I…” Dan didn’t want that. Phil had him feeling inadequate enough during class times; Dan wasn’t eager to turn that into an extracurricular activity as well. “No, can’t. I’ve got weight training. I’m trying to be able to bench press my dresser by the end of the year.”

Phil stared at him, Dan watching his face as he realized that the declination was wrapped in a joke. Then he burst out laughing, rolling onto his back again, Dan grinning a little as he watched him. Phil’s mirth was bright and really quite wonderful, and Dan found himself replaying the moment as he fell asleep that night.

 

 

 

“You can’t argue that the Romeo and Juliet ballet is more difficult on a technical level than The Nutcracker. You just can’t.”

“I can.” Phil's insistence had Dan raising his eyebrows, stretching his legs out into middle splits.

“You shouldn’t.”

Phil gave him an amused look, but Dan didn’t see anything funny. Class was over, everyone talking as they loosened out their muscles, and Phil was trying to debate technique difficulty with him. Dan loved Romeo and Juliet, he did, but he felt that the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy should be enough to prove his point. Phil shook his head.

“There are too many different versions of Romeo and Juliet to be able to say that.” He argued. “Besides, did you see the performance of it that traveled through the country last year?”

Dan thought back for a moment, then nodded. He’d begged his mother, though he hadn’t really needed to; she’d bought him a ticket to see it as soon as she’d heard it was coming through. He loved watching ballets almost more than dancing them; watching the primas and principals up on stage was always reinvigorating. It reminded him what it was he was working towards.

“You remember that troupe then? Do you remember how cute the dancer that played Mercutio was?”

Dan nearly choked on his tongue. Oh. Phil thought Mercutio was cute. Phil thought boys were cute.  _Oh._

“I… I’m not sure that’s the strongest argument.” He said lamely, his mind reeling with this new discovery, and Phil laughed a little.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He looked over Dan, raising an eyebrow. “You can get your center stretch wider than that. And you can bend over farther than that! I’ve seen you.”

“But…” Dan gave up on keeping his back straight, collapsing forward. The dull pain in his hamstrings shot up his legs, and he groaned. “I’m lazy.”

Phil laughed, getting to his feet. “Are you slacking off, Howell?”

“...maybe.”

“Come on, straighten your back.”

After a good amount of grumbling, Dan did. Then Phil but all but laid on him, forcing his stretch deeper. Dan’s hip popped loudly, the release of tension having him sighing in spite of himself. Phil laughed, close and breathy in his ear.

“Better?”

Dan suddenly couldn’t breathe, his tongue much too big for his mouth, and gave only a nod. Phil hummed in satisfaction, going back to his own stretches.

A week later, two weeks into the farthest Dan had ever been on the road to a professional ballet career, found him lying face down on the rug on his bedroom floor. Finally, after working so hard for so long, he had succumbed to his exhaustion, rolling onto his back and letting out a loud groan. He needed to go and take a shower, but he didn't want to move.

He was tired. So tired. He knew he was doing fine, accomplishing movements and sequences at the rate expected of his skill level, but 'fine’ wasn’t good enough. Easing up was looking more and more appealing, making it that much harder to push himself.

It was Phil's fault, Dan decided, training his eyes up on his ceiling fan. Both in and out of class, Phil had become a large distraction, mostly because Dan couldn't stop thinking about him. Regardless if he was changing poses, stretching, or simply looking at the instructor with attentiveness on his face, he was a sight to behold. And even more frustratingly, Phil would catch him staring, and seemed completely oblivious to how beautiful he was. Instead, he would always try to offer Dan help.

“Hey,” Phil said quietly, when once again he glanced over to see Dan watching him, “are you sure you don't want me to help you with these ballonnés? The offer is still on the table from yesterday.”

Dan let out a fast breath through his nose. He didn't need help with ballonnés. Phil’s blue eyes had met his own and his balance had wavered for the smallest of a second. Under normal, usual, non-stomach-fluttering circumstances, he could balance on one foot just fine.

“I'd rather practice with a herd of flamingos.” Dan responded, angling his chin slightly higher. He always declined Phil’s invitations to practice together--the offers, while kind in nature, always struck Dan with that Phil-branded feeling of inadequacy--and Phil always laughed.

“You should. They could really teach you a proper ballonné. And you could work on that attitude devant of yours, while you're at it; they seem better at balancing on one leg than you.”

Dan felt his cheeks heat up. “Shut up,” He grumbled, about to tell Phil off for being cheeky when the instructor did it for him. They'd been talking too loudly. Phil's expression mellowed as they apologized, but when he glanced back at Dan he was grinning.

Their instructor stayed behind once cool down had been completed, standing at the front with his hands on his hips. His presence alone was enough for them all to fall silent and give their attention, without him having to say anything; he was always the first to leave while everyone else chatted with each other or got in some extra stretching time. This was new and unexpected. After a few expectant moments, the man cleared his throat.

“Alright everyone. This year, for the annual program, the school has decided to put on a rendition of The Firebird.”

Excitement carried throughout the room in hushed voices, everyone recognizing the name of the popular play. Dan's heart began hammering in his chest. He could barely believe it.

“I am expecting each and every one of you to audition for the role of Prince Ivan. The audition material should have been sent to you…” He glanced up at the analog clock on the wall. “...two minutes ago. The audition is at the end of the month; I will give exact dates and times as the day grows closer. Class will continue as normal. Dismissed!”

Then he left the room. Dan simply sat there, watching the hole in space where he had been. Phil nudged him, the contact surprising.

“Hey, The Firebird. That's a cool one.”

“It's… It's my favorite ballet.” Dan said after a moment. Phil smiled, getting to his feet.

“Good for you!” He said, extending a hand to help Dan up. Dan took it. “That's exciting!”

Dan wasn't really paying attention to him though, for perhaps the first time. The exhaustion had left his limbs, buzzing instead with excited energy. This was his chance. He was going to be Prince Ivan. He had to be. And he only had two weeks to prepare.

His fatigue dissipated. Instead he increased his efforts, his favorite practice room becoming an evening refuge for a couple of hours every night to work over the audition choreography. He was sore, he was tired, but he was determined. He had to know this material inside out.

Four days into his studies, he arrived in the practice room to see Phil there, already beginning stretches, Summer Waltz by Søren Bebe playing softly through the speakers attached to his phone. Phil simply glanced up at him, not saying a word and Dan, not willing to be driven from the room he considered his--and feeling it would be awkward to go, after he'd been spotted stepping in--set up his things on the other side of the room just as wordlessly and put his earbuds in his ears. They practiced separately, in silence.

The next day, Phil was there again. Dan resolutely stayed quiet, refusing to be distracted. He had to be focused; watching Phil was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Phil didn’t attempt to interrupt him, and for that Dan was grateful.

Phil often ended his practice before Dan did, but on the weekend before their last week of rehearsal time Dan was stretching out at the end of his session and Phil was still there, simply looking at himself in the mirror. Finally, he spoke.

“Could you watch me?”

“...what?” Dan asked, taking out one earbud. He hadn’t expected Phil to talk to him.

“Could you watch me? I want to go through the routine once more. Could you critique it?”

“Oh.” Dan removed his earbuds entirely, moving back to sit against the wall and crossing his legs. “Yeah, sure. Okay.”

Phil nodded slightly, picking up his phone to restart the music the routine was set to. He positioned himself into a croisé devant, his left arm up, every finger poised delicately. Phil smiled down at him, Dan felt his heart nearly stop, and then the music began.

The way Phil danced was breathtaking. He was graceful the way rushing water was graceful, powerful and unstoppable, yet light all the same. The longer he performed, the more his movements became, larger and grander and stronger. He looked the way Dan wanted to look when he danced: like beauty in motion. Dan was completely entranced.

However, the more Dan watched him, the more he noticed something, something he wouldn’t have seen as unusual unless he’d known the routine as forwards and backwards as he did. Phil was doing it  _wrong._

Phil was putting in unnecessary piqué turns, giving his pirouettes too many spins, stepping too quickly with his chassés. It was beautiful, undoubtedly, almost too natural to be noticed, and though it looked so perfect it took Dan’s breath away, at the same time, it wasn't the material they had been given. Almost, but not quite. Phil landed his final tour en l’air unwaveringly, his chest heaving, looking at Dan for the criticism he had asked for.

“Well?” He finally prompted. Dan faltered for a moment. He couldn’t put his wonderment into words.

“It was wrong.” He finally said. Phil’s arms fell to his sides.

“Wrong?” He asked back. He didn’t seem crestfallen, more curious as to what Dan meant.

“The choreography. It was wrong.”

“Oh.” Phil was quiet for a moment. “Yeah.”

“Don’t…” Dan wasn’t sure what to say; Phil's simple acknowledgement left him feeling confused. “Didn’t you know that you weren’t doing it correctly?” Phil hadn’t reacted to any of the mistakes, but Dan simply figured that Phil was more professional than he was about messing up.

“I mean, I guess so.” Phil shrugged, a small, slightly lopsided grin on his face now. “But when I dance… I guess I don’t find the specifics too important. I do what feels right with the music. It usually winds up a little different each time, if I'm being honest.”

Dan resisted the urge to gape at him. Phil was defying the choreography on purpose, changing it as he moved, as though he knew what fit the music better than Michel Fokine. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“You won’t win the part like that, you know.” Dan told him, getting to his feet and gathering his things as Phil began to stretch out. Phil just smiled at him again.

“Sure, but that doesn't matter as much. I do this because I like it. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” He extended a leg out in front of him, stretched out to hold his foot, and looked up at Dan as he leaned forward over it. “Isn’t that why you’re here too?”

Dan stood for a moment before turning on his heel, refusing to admit that he didn’t have an answer.

 

 

 

They began helping each other during the final week of practice. Despite his goofiness during class times, Phil was surprisingly serious during their practice sessions, his criticism of Dan’s movements always pointed and specific. He had a very sharp eye for the smallest of details, walking over to straighten Dan’s arms a little more, running his hands down Dan’s back to relax his shoulders, or stepping behind him to take a hold of Dan’s hips and turn them to just the right angle. That particular correction had Dan biting down hard on his tongue, able to feel the press of Phil’s fingertips against his skin long after he’d moved away. But he didn’t let himself meet Phil’s eyes, keeping at a distance. He wanted the role of Prince Ivan, telling himself that he wanted it more than anything. He was not going to get distracted.

Then the evening before auditions came, and Dan felt so tightly wound that he was about to snap. He had easily danced this choreography a hundred times but now, this night of all nights, he couldn't get the emboîté combination right. A lump of frustration welled in his throat.

“You can do this.” Phil said quietly, breaking through Dan's angry silence. “You're just stressed. I've seen you do it tons of times.”

“I know I can do it.” Dan snapped back, balancing himself on the ball of his right foot. He faltered again, before he could even change feet, and suppressed vexed growl. “I know I can.”

“Then take it slowly, and focus.” Phil said. Dan felt so patronized that when he looked up, he expected a condescending expression on Phil's face. But there was nothing of the sort, Phil looking back at him for a moment before beginning to clap his hands, counting Dan off, his beat half as fast as the original piece. Grudgingly, Dan pulled himself into position.

The moves went smoothly, Phil beaming at him.

“There you go!” He said happily. “Let's take it a little faster now.”

And they did, drilling the sequence of steps until Dan was back to full speed. Dan didn't want to thank Phil, but he knew that was irrationally stubborn behavior, so he did so anyway. Phil however, brushed the gratitude off.

“I knew you could do it.” He said again. “You just need to calm down. What do you do to relax?”

“Relax?” Dan echoed, unable to believe that Phil was talking about relaxing less than twelve hours before auditions were to start. He tried to think of what he did in his spare time, something that was few and far between at the summer camp. “I… I dance.”

“Oh?” Phil seemed surprised. “What do you dance to?”

“What we're learning in class.”

Phil raised his eyebrows. “That's not relaxing Dan, that's practicing. Don't you have any hobbies? You know, knitting or something?”

“Do I look like someone who can knit?” Dan deadpanned, and Phil began laughing. He went to his phone and began scrolling through his music library.

“Dancing…” He seemed to be musing aloud. “Here.”

He selected a new piece, the instantly recognizable vibrancy of Beethoven’s sixth symphony playing through his speakers. Then he held out his hand.

“Dance with me, Dan.”

Dan hesitated. “I've never learned a routine to this song.” He finally said. He couldn’t dance to something without knowing the steps. He felt embarrassed just by the suggestion; the last thing he wanted was to make a fool of himself.

“Neither have I.” Phil reached out, entwining their fingers. “I'm not taking no for an answer.”

Dan was instantly slow and flustered, trying to think of steps he already knew that he could string together in his head, but he couldn’t do it fast enough. He was behind Phil's feet and the beat of the music.

“C'mon Dan.” Phil leaned him back into a startling dip, then brought him up for a twirl. “Relax.”

Dan closed his eyes, sighed out a breath, deciding to follow Phil’s lead. He tightened his grip on Phil’s hand, looked into his eyes… And they were dancing. They moved and they spun, pushed and pulled, fell away and drew back, Phil's hand in his, a smile on his face. The music was light and happy, and in return Dan began to feel some of his stress dropping off his shoulders and sinking through the floorboards beneath their feet. He didn't think about precision, didn’t obsess over posture, didn't worry about what was coming next. It wasn't easy to just let go and allow the music take him, Phil obviously much more experienced with that, but it was dancing, and it was  _fun_ , and Phil held onto him, helping him move with the melody.

They were breathing heavy when the movement ended, stock still but chests heaving, a mere few inches apart. Phil looked over his face and Dan's smile faded, suddenly nervous at being this close. Phil reached up with his free hand, sweeping Dan's bangs from his eyes. The touch felt electric.

“You're pretty.” He murmured. “You're always pretty, but especially up close.”

Dan's heart hammered, Phil's gaze tracing an outline of his lips. When Phil's eyes returned to his own, Dan kissed him.

He kissed Phil with all the exhilaration he felt, coming forward in a rush of admiration and affection. When Phil kissed him back there was a smile against his lips, pulling him closer, giving a squeeze to their entwined hands. Then he pulled back with a sigh, resting his forehead against Dan's.

“So?” He asked. “Are you more relaxed now?”

Dan kept his eyes closed, wanting to remain in the moment for as long as possible. He couldn’t see Phil’s face, but could hear the smile in his voice.

“I… Yes.” He finally answered. If Phil’s hands weren’t tethering him to the practice room floor, he felt as though he could float up through the ceiling and away.

Dan spent more time in the practice room than he meant to. Then, even more of his supposed sleeping time was used instead to press his face into his pillow in an effort to suppress the silly smile that he couldn’t keep off his face. He couldn’t stop grinning, couldn’t stop giggling to himself in the dark, replaying the kiss--and the other kisses that had followed--in his head. He wasn’t tired, or worried at all; he was happy.

As a result though, on the morning of the auditions, he woke up late. He jolted out of bed in a panic, dressing haphazardly and rushing from the room. He didn't get even half the time he would have liked to warm up and stretch out, and didn't have a chance to run the routine at all before he had to walk in, his mantra of  _control_  sounding painfully unconvincing in his head. It wasn't his worst performance, he knew that. He tried to tell himself he that he could have done worse, that everyone could have done worse than him, but he knew it was foolish to think that way. He kept turning the routine over in his head, catching on every tiny mistake he’d made. His stomach wouldn’t stop churning.

After the final dancer had auditioned, Dan began obsessively checking the outside of their instructor's door every hour on the hour for the list of part assignments. He was so full of anxious energy that he couldn’t do anything in between but pace the length of the rug in his room. He felt jittery all over, too nervous to speak to anyone but too wound up to sit still. Finally, after six trips back and forth, the list was there. Dan ran the rest of the way up the hall, stopping breathlessly in front of the sheet of paper, swallowing hard. His eyes flew to the top of the list.

_Prince Ivan Tsarevich -- Philip Lester  
_ _Koschei (the Immortal) -- Daniel Howell_

Dan felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. His eyes ran over the remaining names in the list, but he wasn't actually reading them. He felt sick. He felt numb, looking at the top of the list again, between his name and Phil's.  _Philip Lester._  It was a brass-knuckled punch, and Dan could feel the welt from it growing large and painful in his throat. It wasn't fair.

He'd never wanted something as badly as this. He wanted the role more than Phil, he knew. Based on what he had seen in their practice sessions together, he could dance the program more accurately than Phil. Phil might have more experience, but Dan knew he could work harder. That seemed to mean nothing.

He’d needed to prove to himself that despite being young, he and his passion could make him a principal dancer. That he belonged in the elite class, that he could do it, despite his persistently inadequate feelings from not being the best. Achieving the chance to perform as Prince Ivan the year he became a professional level ballet dancer seemed so fitting, but apparently he still wasn't good enough. And maybe he wasn't. But he could dance the program better than Phil, and that's what made this so unfair. He refused to get sad, refused, this time, to let himself feel defeated. Instead, he was angry.

His hands balled into fists, tears pricking his eyes, Dan marched up to Phil's bedroom. He flung the door open without introduction, his chest heaving as he tried not to cry. Phil was lying on his bed, glancing up from his phone in surprise.

“Dan!” There was a smile on Phil's face upon seeing him, for just a moment, before he registered his expression. “What's wrong?”

“Congratulations.” Dan responded savagely, swallowing hard. He would not cry.

“What?” Phil asked. Phil didn't know he'd been given the role; he hadn't been obsessively checking like Dan had. That realization made Dan even more furious.

“Prince Ivan.” Dan told him. “You got it.”

“Oh!” Again, another flash of emotion across his face, this time of happy surprise. Then he realized why Dan was there. “Oh, Dan--”

“Did you dance the program?” The question spilled out of him loudly, painfully. “Correctly? Exactly the way it was given to us?”

“I… I don't know.” Phil finally admitted. “I just got into the music and tried my best, I don't remember exactly what I did.”

“So no, is what you're saying. You didn't follow the choreography.”

Phil simply gave him a hopeless look.

“Then why didn't they give it to me? I didn't stretch out all the way, so jumps weren’t as big as normal and stuff but I didn't...” Dan felt his voice crack, and despite his determination tears spilled over his lower eyelashes and onto his face. He quickly angled his gaze down at his feet. “I didn't mess things up on purpose, like you did.”

“I'm sorry Dan, I don't know.” In the silence Phil got to his feet, stepping over a few books and magazines on his floor, so they were now only a foot apart. He began to rub Dan's upper arms with his hands, as though the rude words didn't bother him. Dan knew he meant to be comforting, but his fingers were cold.

“It's not fair.” He sounded like a child, he knew, but he was too upset to care. “I worked harder. I practiced more. I…” He crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to lift his head. “...I wanted this more than you.”

“Dan, don't worry about it. This doesn't mean you didn't deserve it too. You're not a bad dancer. What part did you get?”

“Koschei.”

“He's the main antagonist!” Phil was trying to spin the situation, but Dan felt the enthusiasm bounce off of him uselessly, annoyingly. “He's a big role too.”

“Then take him!” Dan exclaimed, lurching away. He didn't want Phil's pity; he didn't want Phil trying to make him feel better. “Take him! I don't want him!”

“Dan--”

“What? It's not like it matters what role you get, since you're not going to follow the choreography anyway. Because you're too good for it, right?”

“That's not--” Phil cut himself off, again stepping closer, reaching out in an attempt to take one of his hands. In the silence Dan realized that he was still crying, and he struggled in a breath. “Dan, you're incredible, okay? Auditions are stupid. Don't let this bring you down.”

The oversimplification of his feelings had Dan choking on his next words. It was all so easy for Phil to say. This was Phil's fault. Dan should have left the practice room when he'd planned, and gone to sleep when he’d planned. Phil never should have offered to dance with him. Dan should have said no.

“Don't touch me.”

“Dan?”

“I said don't touch me!” Dan pushed Phil's chest, hard. Phil was still trying to comfort him, still trying to hold on, their legs tangling as they stumbled off balance. Phil lost his footing on something behind him and they fell together, hitting the ground in a tumble, and under him Dan heard Phil let out a shout of pain. He scrambled to his feet as soon as he could but Phil didn't follow suit, curled in on himself, his body still and his breathing harsh. Phil's ankle was twisted, lying on the floor at an unnatural angle.

 

 

 

Mark, one of the senior members of their class and Phil's alternate, took over the Prince Ivan role. Phil had been rushed to the emergency clinic that night, and hadn't reappeared. Dan went to class the following Monday, but the room seemed empty and lifeless, the space next to him on the bar a constant reminder of what he had done. Between the incredibly loud absence of Phil and the murmured wondering from his classmates about what had happened, Dan knew he wouldn’t be able to stomach making it to class again the next morning.

So he didn’t go. He didn’t go to class the next day, or the day after that. Or the week after that. Dan's role was also taken by his alternate, his instructor deeming him unfit, as he seemed unwilling to put in the work.

Dan didn't care. He kept himself in his room, always trying to keep his mind off of Phil and always failing, feeling sick to his stomach whenever the moment replayed itself in his head. He felt so, so guilty, wondering just how badly he’d hurt Phil, wondering if Phil would ever be able to dance again. He didn’t want to think of that. He didn't think he could withstand it, being the cause of Phil losing his grace, despite how much he felt deserved it.

After roughly three weeks, Dan was given the choreography for his new role in The Firebird. He was the leader of the woodland people now, which was more or less a glorified babysitter, his job less to dance and more to make sure the younger kids stayed focused when they were up on stage. The choreography was painfully easy, but it had been drilled into Dan for too many years to learn whatever it was he had been given, so he began again to make evening trips to his practice room. After not dancing for so long he found himself disgustingly stiff and strangely unsure on his feet, but he was grateful for something to work on.

A few days later, a rumor began circulating that Phil had come back. Dan turned every corner tentatively, terrified of running into him, searching through the school for any other room to practice in than the old one they’d shared. But every room was full with Firebird rehearsals, all his caution wasted when he opened the door to their practice room and Phil was there, sitting and stretching on the floor. They met eyes in the mirror, Dan freezing in the doorway, his breath stopping in his lungs. He couldn't read Phil's face.

“Hey.” Phil finally said, breaking the eye contact and angling his gaze back downwards to the floor. His right ankle was wrapped tightly in a roller bandage, Claude Debussy’s “Arabesque” playing quietly from the speakers on the floor next to him. Dan still couldn't move.

“The doctors said it was bound to happen.” Phil continued, breaking the second lengthy silence. “Apparently, I already had a stress fracture there. If it hadn't happened when it did, it would have happened later. During Firebird rehearsals, most likely. It's probably better this way.”

“Can… Can you still dance?” Dan asked, his voice choked and breathless.   _Did I ruin you?_  Phil looked back up at him, and to Dan's surprise, there was a bit of a smile on his face.

“I tried to waltz with my crutches a week or so ago, but it wasn't pretty. They're a much worse dance partner than you. I haven't really tried since.”

He held out a hand, a request for help to his feet, and Dan hastened to grant it, finally moving from his place in the doorway. Phil's hand was warm as he gripped Dan's own, and as he struggled to get up, tears came to Dan's eyes. Phil was standing, but he was unsure and unsteady on his feet, so unlike the graceful dancer he had been before. And Dan was the one that had done this to him. Phil held onto him and they started swaying to the gentle piano music, Phil limping along on his bandaged foot.

“I'm sorry.” Dan said, words and tears all spilling out of him in a rush. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so--”

“Dan, it's okay--”

“It's all my fault. I'm horrible, I should have never, I'm so sorry…” He was blubbering, incoherent, heaving in a breath until he was crying too hard to speak. They'd stopped moving, Phil scooting closer and Dan taking him into his arms. Phil cupped Dan's face in his hands, wiping tears from his cheeks with his thumbs.

“It's okay. It's not your fault.”

Dan couldn't do anything more than shake his head but Phil just held him, pressing a single, light kiss into his hair. Dan knew that it shouldn't be him being comforted, that Phil should be angry, yelling at him or hurting him back and honestly, part of Dan wanted that to happen, wanted the punishment he deserved for what he had done. Another part of him though, wanted to hold on to Phil's reassurances tightly until he could make himself believe them.

Phil's ankle was healed enough for him to start using it again, though only a little. He had a firmly structured physical therapy schedule that would lead him to making a full recovery, and every night instead of working on dancing, Dan would meet Phil in the practice room and help him work through the exercises.

He tried his best to stay quiet and helpful, speaking only when spoken to, giving small and reassuring smiles. He could tell Phil hated his newfound lack of mobility, despite how much he tried to hide it, and whenever that resentment showed on his face that horrible sinking feeling brought itself into Dan's stomach again and he redoubled his efforts. He always walked Phil back to his room, carrying his things for him, and after a few days of this Phil stopped him outside his closed bedroom door, taking his equipment from Dan's arms instead of letting him drop it down on his bed as usual. Dan gave him a questioning look.

“Is something wrong?” He asked hesitantly.

“I just have something I want to say.” Phil was gripping the foam roll he had tightly, twisting it a little in his hands. “I like you. I like you a lot, and I still do. I realized while I was bedridden that I hadn't properly told you yet.”

Dan could do nothing more than stare at him, unable to come up with a proper response before Phil started talking again.

“I really like your company, I always have--that's why I've always annoyed you so much--but now something's different about you, Dan. It's been… Weird, between us. So if you're only helping me out with this stuff because you feel guilty, I'd rather you just let me do it on my own.”

Before Dan could say another word, Phil turned to the door behind him and disappeared into his room. Slowly, Dan made his way back to his own bed.

Phil liked him, even after what happened. Despite of what he had done, Phil didn’t hate him. But he didn’t want Dan’s help with his physical therapy, either. So the next day, Dan didn’t go.

He went to class instead. Everyone was practicing on a routine he didn’t know, working on technique in petit allegro, Mark volunteering to take him aside and teach it to him instead of getting his own work in. Dan felt bad about inconveniencing him, and could barely stand the surprised stares he was getting from everyone else--though after missing class for weeks, he didn’t know why he would have expected different--but Mark asked him to come back, claiming everyone had missed him. He spoke awkwardly, and Dan felt awkward too, not knowing him very well at all, but the sentiment was appreciated, and after using up so much of his time, Dan felt he couldn’t do anything but promise to return. The prospect made him anxious that night, exhausted but unable to sleep. He hadn’t seen Phil at all that day, and it he didn’t like it.

It was only fifteen minutes from midnight when he gave up on going to bed at all and pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the protesting soreness of his muscles. He would just knock on Phil’s door. If Phil had fallen asleep by now, then he would go back to his room. If not, Dan wanted to talk to him.

Surprisingly, the door opened when Dan knocked. Phil was dressed for bed like he was but also didn’t look tired, large, black-rimmed glasses on his face. The glasses brought even more attention to his eyes, Dan realizing for the first time that they weren’t just vividly blue, but bright shades of blue, green, and yellow all at once.

“...Dan? What are you doing here?”

He’d been staring. Phil hopped back to let him inside, and Dan stepped in tentatively.

“I… I was just wondering… How’s your ankle?”

“About the same as it was yesterday. Hopefully a little bit better.” Phil eyed him for a moment. “You knocked on my door at near midnight for some small talk? Really?”

“...yes?” Dan didn’t know what to say, wishing now that he’d planned something, anything, to talk about. “I wanted to see you, I guess.”

The statement was embarrassing, and he could feel that embarrassment as heat on his face. But Phil smiled at him, so Dan considered the words worth it.

“You can’t go… What has it been now, one day? You can’t go twenty-four hours without seeing me? How did you survive when I was gone?” Phil was teasing, crossing the floor to his bed and sitting down. He patted the space next to him, offering Dan to sit too, and after an awkward moment of consideration, Dan did.

“I went to class today.” He said. “I haven’t been in a while.”

“You haven’t been going to class?” Phil raised his eyebrows. “What? Why? Did they pull you out of it for recital practice or something?”

Dan realized that Phil didn’t know that his role, too, had been taken by his alternate.

“Oh, I’m not in the ballet anymore. I mean, I guess I am, but it’s something stupid. I think they actually made the role up for me to have something to do. I have a short solo, and they taught me the choreography once, but I’m sure they’ve forgotten what it was by now.”

“Weren’t you Koschei? What happened?”

Dan swallowed, shrugging. “They gave it to Sean. It’s not a big deal; I don’t really care anymore.”

Phil’s expression was sadness and sympathy, and Dan sighed. Everything was so screwed up now.

“I’m the ‘leader of the forest creatures’, they called it. I keep the little kids in check, basically. I could do the choreography in my sleep. But I’m so out of practice--I was really embarrassing in class today.”

“I’m sure you were better than I would have been.”

Dan bit his lip as the joke passed between them, suddenly struck with an idea.

“Hey, Phil?”

“Yeah?”

“I… Well, I know you don’t want me to help you with the physical therapy stuff and I get that, but… But since you’re a prima ballerina and all…” Phil chuckled at the title, and with a surge of confidence, Dan kept going. “Do you think you could help me practice my technique? Get me back up to speed, and stuff?”

Phil considered the offer silently. For the most part, it was an excuse for them to spend time together and he knew Phil could see that--Dan was perfectly capable of practicing on his own--but it would be helpful. It would be something to do, something that didn’t focus on Phil’s injury. Finally, Phil smiled.

“You said no one cares about your choreography, right? It wouldn’t matter what you danced during the performance?”

“I mean, yeah. I could probably get up there with some gross tap number and the instructors wouldn’t bat an eye.”

“Good.” Phil’s smile widened, a small glint now in his eye. “I’ll write you something for your technique, and I’ll help you practice it. But you have to perform it during the show. Deal?”

Phil held out his hand. Dan looked at the funny formality for a moment before accepting, and they shook on it.

“Deal.”

 

 

 

Class that day was difficult, even more so than it had been the day before now that he was aching all over. But his classmates did seem genuinely happy to have him there and that was nice at least. Phil was waiting for him in their practice room, laying on the floor on his stomach, scribbling something on a piece of paper he had in front of him.

“I have a routine for you.” He said once he noticed Dan was there, beaming. “I've been working on it all day.”

“Oh?” Phil's excitement alone had Dan convinced that this was probably the best idea he'd ever had. “What is it?”

“Well, Daniel,” Phil said with a smile, rolling onto his back and looking up at him, “are you familiar with the chicken dance?”

Dan couldn’t do much more than stare, unable to even think of something to say, when Phil burst into laughter, his eyes squeezing shut as he smiled, resting his hands on his stomach.

“I’m joking!” He exclaimed, extending his piece of paper in Dan’s direction. “I have a proper routine. I can’t exactly dance it for you, so I wrote it down.”

Dan took the paper, reading through the moves, only halfway down the page when he shook his head.

“I can’t do this.”

“Really? You don’t think so?” Phil frowned up at him. “I think you can.”

The vote of confidence was nice and all, but Dan was pretty sure that the first center combination alone would kill him.

“It's too hard.”

“Come on, it's not very long.” Phil wheedled. “Just give it a shot, at least. We have a deal.”

Dan looked over the note again, Phil moving into a sitting position.

“My old instructor wrote that for me.” He said. “It was my audition, to qualify me for this program. I really, really messed it up because of how nervous I was. But it's really beautiful; I think you could do it justice.”

Dan was silent for a moment, then took a seat next to Phil on the floor, pointing his toes, spreading his legs out until he felt a stretch in his hamstrings. Phil gave him a quizzical look.

“Well, let's get started.” Dan told him. “I have a difficult program to learn, don't I?”

Phil beamed.

It was hard to get back into the swing of things, hard to get used to so much physical exercise and all the early mornings. Not having Phil in class made the entire time drag, but it was much easier to focus, and he always had evenings to look forward to. Phil's routine was killing him just like he'd thought it would, but he wasn't giving up. If Phil had been able to dance this routine, he wanted to make sure he could too.

Some days were harder than others, and this day was full of nothing but left feet. Dan was in the middle of a series of cabrioles when he landed off balance, stumbled over his legs, and nearly smacked his head against the mirrored wall, having to slap his hands against it to brace and steady himself. The sound was loud and surprising, Phil watching him, open-mouthed.

“...nice job.” He finally said with a smile, Dan righting himself back on his feet. “That was amazing.”

“Oh, shut up.” Dan responded with a laugh, rather stunned at the spectacular failure he'd just put on display. “I'd like to see you do better, you cripple.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he froze. He hadn't meant to say them--he’d barely even thought them, and they were obviously a joke, his tone enough to portray that much. But he hadn't made any jokes about Phil, or teased him at all, since he'd come back. He'd done so before, but now he was walking on eggshells, terrified that Phil would hate him. He was strongly considering simply running from the room and never coming back when from behind him, Phil began to laugh.

“There you are.” Phil said. He was all smiles, all amusement, and Dan breathed a sigh of relief. “I've missed this side of you.”

“What? You've missed me making fun of you?”  

“Of course! You're all 'Serious Daniel’ now. It hurt my feelings; I thought you didn't like me anymore.”

“You're weird.” Dan told him, but if anything Phil smiled wider. “Don't worry. I still like you.”

It didn't really feel like a confession when he said it. It was simply a statement, something the both of them had known all along.

“Good.” Phil said, before clapping his hands together. “Come on; let's see if I can get you to actually fall on your face before the end of the day.”

Dan rolled his eyes, laughing, and they got back to work.

 

 

 

“Again. You're so close; you can do it.”

“No Phil, I can't.” Dan sighed, wiping sweat from his face with the bottom of his shirt. It soaked through, wetting his fingers underneath. They were two weeks away from the big show, and Dan had all the movements learned, now working on cleaning them up. “It's too fast.”

“But you've almost worked it up to tempo! Just a few more clicks and you'll have it perfect.”

Dan frowned loudly, hoping that maybe if he repeated himself more clearly, Phil would understand.

“Listen.” He said, putting his hands together and speaking slowly. “I. Cannot. Do. Pirouettes. That. Fast.”

“Well.” Phil raised his eyebrows, glancing casually away. “I could.”

Dan let out a fast breath through his nose.

“Dan, this was my favorite part!” Phil was back, with enthusiasm. “It's like flying!”

“Phil, you can't even walk faster than me.”

“Hey. No ankle jokes, not now; right now you need some motivation.”

“What, are you going to offer me candy again?” Dan had gotten a few pieces of chocolate candy for a particularly nice chain of piqué turns a few days ago. Phil ignored him, still thinking. Then his face lit up.

“If you do the pirouettes up to tempo, I'll kiss you.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Phil's grin turned slightly mischievous, Dan hoping desperately he wasn't blushing as badly as he felt he was. They hadn't talked about anything since they'd kissed the first time, despite the casual closeness they had been falling back into.

“Okay?” Phil asked. It took Dan a moment to find his tongue.

“O-okay.”

Phil smiled at his stutter, Dan resisting the urge to tell him to shut up. Phil restarted the music.

“Get ready.”

Dan got in position, listening, trying to get the tempo of the music into his limbs. He executed the leadup to the turns, balancing on the ball of one foot, and began to spin. And this time, like all the other times, he was late. Behind the beat by a little too much, sighing and letting himself back down on his heels once the pirouettes had finished. He glanced up at Phil.

“Do you want to try it again?” Phil asked. Dan nodded, and he rewound the music. Then he tried again. And again. But it wasn't turning into a matter of skill anymore; they'd been going at this one section for a long time now, and more than anything Dan was tired. It simply wasn't happening. Phil hit stop, walking over to him.

“We'll try again tomorrow, alright? You'll get it.” He said, taking Dan's hands in his and swaying them slightly. Dan made a noncommittal noise.

“Believe in yourself!” Phil insisted with a little bit of a smile, squeezing his fingers and leaning in, placing a soft kiss on his lips.

“Wait…” Dan said, once he was able to recollect his thoughts, a warm, happy feeling growing in his chest as Phil smiled at him. “But I couldn't do it. This wasn't the deal.”

“I guess, for this deal,” Phil released Dan's hands in favor of sliding his arms around his waist. “It's the thought that counts.”

He stepped in close, gently nudging Dan's nose with his own; a silent question of permission. Dan, heart pounding and singing all at once, closed the gap between them.

Dan loved kissing Phil. Phil kissed the way he danced, strong and lithe and perfect, holding him like he was the most important thing in the world, so convincingly that for a tiny moment, Dan let himself believe him.

Phil, to his happy surprise, seemed to like kissing him too. As they got closer and closer to the day of the ballet performance, Dan became grateful to his past self for how hard he'd been driven to work, because now, more often than not, their practice sessions were quickly derailed. He always made sure, at least, that Phil got his physical therapy done.

“Dan, I'm bored.” Phil complained. He was at the bar, doing slow tendus in plié that truly looked painfully dull. “Are you working on anything? We should go do something else.”

“But you need to finish that. Besides, the show is four days away, and my routine isn't stage ready yet.”

“You weren't working on it just now.” Phil pointed out accusingly. He was right; Dan had been doing coupes-jetés en tournant around the room for the past ten minutes, just for fun. “And the routine is good, you're doing it fine.”

“Fine and good are not the same thing.” Dan insisted. Phil sighed, straightening up.

“Well, I'm going to go finish this up in my room. So that's where I'll be.” He said, gathering his things and leaving. Amused, Dan watched him go, but told himself that he really had work he needed to do, and he needed to get it done in this practice room. So he managed about two run-throughs of the routine before giving up, too distracted, making his way to Phil's room.

Phil actually was finishing up his therapy, sitting on the carpet, Chopin's Spring Waltz playing softly as Dan entered. Dan sat down next to him to help with the final stretches, Phil giving him an amused look.

“Done for the day? I'm sure you got a lot of things worked on in those fifteen minutes since the last time I saw you.”

“Oh shut it, you said I was doing fine.” Dan grumbled, and Phil laughed. “I wanted to make sure you got all of this done.”

“Well, thanks to you, now I have.” Phil raised his arms up over his head as he folded his legs into a sitting position, sighing a little when his left shoulder popped. “How could I have done all of that plantar flexion and dorsiflexion without you?”

Dan hit him lightly on the shoulder in protest of all the teasing, Phil taking the opportunity to pull him close and kiss him. The kiss was more ardent than he was expecting, a kiss he didn't know he wanted until Phil pulled back and Dan leaned to him, chasing after his lips. Phil hummed happily, getting up and sitting on his bed, beckoning Dan to follow him. Dan couldn't do so fast enough, and as soon as he was sitting Phil all but climbed into his lap, pushing him down onto his sheets.

“Philip Lester,” Dan asked, accusation in his voice, “was all of this just to get me in your bed?”

“Only if it's working.” Phil answered, laughing against his lips as Dan leaned towards him again. And they stayed that way for a while, kissing lazily and enjoying the closeness. Phil’s breath on his neck made Dan squirm and Phil laughed, the amusement turning into an undignified squeak when Dan tickled him in retaliation. Phil sat back on his thighs, his hands on Dan's chest, looking down at him. His cheeks were slightly flushed, his lips red and wet and happy, his eyes bright.

“You're really beautiful, you know that, right?” Phil said. His heart swelling, Dan sat up, wrapping his arms around Phil and pulling him in so they were both lying down, wanting to hug every inch of Phil he could reach.

“I was about to tell you that.” He said, his voice slightly muffled against the left side of Phil's chest. He could hear Phil’s heartbeat and Phil chuckled a little, pressing a kiss to the top of Dan's head.

“I'm sorry about fracturing your ankle. I really am.” Dan told him quietly. There was a silence after his words, fear settling into Dan's chest, and he lifted his head to see Phil's face. He was frowning.

“You really need to stop giving yourself so much credit.” Phil said, raising his eyebrows. He put on a very self-important tone. “My ankle was already fractured before you pushed me. Nobody fractures my ankles but me.”

“And you sound way too proud of it.” Dan said, giggling, rolling so they were lying side by side.

“I'm sorry you couldn't be Koschei.” Phil said, finding one of Dan's hands and playing with his fingers a little. “Or Prince Ivan.”

Dan shrugged. “It's okay. Mark and Sean don't have as much chemistry as we would have, but they'll do a fine job.”

Phil grinned at him. “You think we have chemistry?”

“What else would you call this?”

“I don't know. I think I just really like you.”

Dan bit his lip in a wasted attempt not to smile, realizing all at once that he was here, in Phil's room, in Phil's bed, the boy from dance class that he had so idolized at the beginning of the year.

“I really like you too.”

 

 

 

_Control._

Slowly, holding in his heaving breath, Dan lowered one foot to the floor. Then he came down from releve on his other side, leaning back so he faced the ceiling, extending an arm out behind him. He held the pose for a number of seconds, explosive applause coming from across the room.

“That was beautiful!” Phil exclaimed, rushing forward. Dan tried to fend him off, exclaiming that he was sweaty, but Phil couldn't be dissuaded, picking him up and spinning him around.

“It's opening night.” He said, once he'd kissed Dan and set him back on his feet. “How do you feel?”

“I'm alright.” He responded truthfully. He was a little nervous, of course, but he'd been in other productions before in much bigger roles, so the pressure didn't feel too heavy. All he'd really wanted was to learn Phil's routine to his satisfaction, and by the reaction he'd just gotten, that had already been achieved.

“You're going to do great.” Phil said. “I'll cheer for you. And I'll be the loudest one there, so you'll know it's me.”

“You're not supposed to cheer in a ballet.” Dan told him. “You're supposed to clap. Politely.”

“But you are supposed to cheer for you boyfriend.” Phil said, rather matter-of-factly, and Dan did his best not to look like he was choking on his own tongue.  _Boyfriend._  They hadn't used any labels, not yet, the word placing a warm excitement in his chest.

“Okay, I need to go.” Phil was saying. “And so do you! I need to look for my mom in the audience; I don't remember where she said it was our seats are. And I already promised I would tell her which one was you, so make sure you do your best out there.”

“What?” Dan finally managed, but Phil was too excited to stop or explain.

“Good luck!” He exclaimed, before kissing Dan on the cheek and rushing off. Dan touched the place Phil had kissed him and shook his head, laughing a little as he made his way to the backstage area where the rest of the dancers were already waiting in position. His instructor frowned upon seeing him, grumbling something about punctuality, but Dan couldn't find it in himself to care too much, getting into place himself.

“Welcome family, friends, and fans of the ballet!” The principal of the Academy said in a grandiose voice. She was on the other side of the curtain, introducing the show. “We are delighted to have all of you here tonight. This year, we are proud to present Igor Stravinsky's 1910 Italian classic, The Firebird. Enjoy the show!”

Then the curtain rose, and the music began.


End file.
